


And The Soul Felt Its Worth

by KChan88



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Christmas, Gen, Melancholy, Queerplatonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:48:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28207095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KChan88/pseuds/KChan88
Summary: On the darkest day of the year, Enjolras walks through a snowy Paris, contemplating the Christmas story. Finding himself lonely and caught up in eerie thoughts of the future, he searches out Combeferre.
Relationships: Combeferre & Enjolras (Les Misérables)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 21





	And The Soul Felt Its Worth

**Author's Note:**

> Just a couple of historical notes! 
> 
> Père Fouettard is an old French legend, and it was said he went around with Saint Nicholas, dispensing lumps of coal to children who misbehaved.
> 
> There's also an older Advent hymn mentioned here, called Creator of the Starry Height.
> 
> (I was inspired to write this while listening to Leslie Odom Jr.'s cover of O Holy Night on repeat, so you know, it's mostly Vibes and Feelings. Hope you enjoy!)

** December 21st, 1831 **

Paris was cold to begin with.

Enjolras liked the cold, though he did not particularly care for the early sunsets it brought. A shiver passed over him, and he slid his gloved hands deeper into the pockets of his coat. The air smelled thick and fresh, the clouds above puffy with precipitation, but no snow had yet arrived, just the refrozen ice encrusted between the paving stones, a crunching sound resounding from beneath the soles of his shoes. He walked along the Île de la Cité, moonlight glimmering silver off the dark waters of the Seine.

He is not going home for Christmas this year. Or rather, he should say he is not going to his parents, because Paris is home now. They had tried to tempt to come for the New Year, but Courfeyrac would be returning to the city for the merriment, and he had promised Courfeyrac he would be here. One does not promise Courfeyrac something and not make good on it. It is not that he wished to avoid his parents, he only felt pulled to stay here, for no reason that he could name, exactly, only that he felt it, and rational as he was, those sorts of feelings ought not be ignored. At least, so said Jean Prouvaire. He was set to spend Christmas with Feuilly, who had the day free, and Combeferre, who offered to remain in Paris should be be needed at Necker for anything.

Enjolras stopped in front of Notre Dame, eyeing the old medieval cathedral—it had surely seen better days. Clouds cast the façade in shadow, the still damaged pieces of the church barely visible at this distance, even as golden candlelight filled up the windows, the sound of hymns slipping out through the cracked open main door. He recognizes the words, if he’s recalling his Latin correctly. It’s an old Advent piece.

_Creator of the starry height,_

_thy people's everlasting light,_

_Jesu, redeemer of us all,_

_hear thou thy servants when they call._

What had drawn him out, tonight?

He was not particularly religious, or even religious at all, really, aside from the Catholic upbringing that was never terribly devout, at least on his part, though the traditions remained a part of him at this time of year. He was a sort of deist, he supposed, though not exactly in the same vein as Robespierre’s famed Cult of the Supreme Being. His beliefs were not so specific. It was funny to think about, when his other beliefs were so firm. Not immovable—he was always willing to learn—but clear nevertheless.

He didn’t deem himself important enough to say with certainty there was no God, but he could never be sure of the manifestation of such a higher power.

A smile slid across his face, Combeferre’s voice ringing in his head.

_I will not say ghosts exist, but I will not say they don’t either._

This time of year had always called to him, whatever his nebulous religious beliefs. The stillness. The cold. The way the world hummed with _more_ , as if the barrier between here and something beyond melted just enough to catch a glimpse. To catch a feeling. A kind of holiness that defied words, these night drenched days holding a single truth—that slowly, but without a doubt, each evening would grow brighter, and his soul along with it. Despite the cold and the dark all around, it reminded him that the sun would eventually hold sway again. He hoped, in turn, that the world would follow in much the same way, though that, of course, was not inevitable. They must all find it within themselves to be the brightness.

He kept walking, leaving the cathedral and the hymns behind him, his footsteps tracing the familiar path to Combeferre’s rooms. During this darkest day of the year, he found he did not want to be alone. Perhaps Combeferre would not be at home, but Enjolras had nowhere to be, and even revolutionary plans to overthrow the government—if the opportunity presented itself—came to a halt in late December.

The streets seemed quieter as he walked, families tucked up inside together, warming themselves against the cold. He stopped when he spotted a gamin on the corner, the child’s hands cracked from the wind. It was not far to Combeferre’s—he could survive without his gloves until he got there, and he had a second pair at home, besides.

“Here,” he said, crouching down next to the boy like he’d seen Joly do. “Take these.”

The gamin stared back at him. “What’s the trick, monsieur?”

Enjolras shook his head. “No trick. I just think you need these more than I do.”

The gamin looked like he wanted to argue, but he took the gloves instead, also not arguing when Enjolras slipped a few coins into his hand.

“Thank you, monsieur,” he said, so softly that Enjolras almost didn’t hear him.

“You’re quite welcome,” Enjolras answered, before continuing on his way.

Of course, not five minutes afterward, the swollen clouds he noticed earlier made good on their threat.

Snow started falling.

It was not a hard snow, the white flakes thick and glittering as they fell with a pleasant ease from the sky. It did serve to dampen his coat however, and he’d forgotten his hat, somehow, not really supposing he would be out so long.

Combeferre would surely lecture him, even if Combeferre was even more likely to forget his own hat.

As he neared Combeferre’s rooms, the clouds parted just enough for him to see the North Star, shimmering alone in the night sky. Such was the mythical star of Bethlehem, that purportedly lead the three Magi to the Christ child on Epiphany. Alone, that is. It was not the same star.

 _Of course there was no such star_ , Combeferre had said just a few days ago, all of their friends huddled up in the back room of the Musain before some left to see their families _. Unless it was an exceptionally rare astrological event. The wise men are said to have been adept at astrology._

 _It’s a symbol, Combeferre_ , Jean Prouvaire had replied with a deep, fond sigh. _Of the light Christ brought to the world._

Combeferre had quirked an eyebrow. _You’re such a Christian, then?_

 _Sometimes,_ Prouvaired had exclaimed _. Just because I think a church should not have state power it does not mean I do not have an appreciation for the myth and mystery of it all. I like reading about religion as you know, and there is certainly a God, I won’t be argued with._

There was more discussion, after that, about how one of the Magi brought Myrrh, known to be used for embalming. What a gift to bring to a child, though of course it made sense, if you knew the fated ending.

Enjolras took in brisk breath of cold air. It was interesting, when thought upon, the inherent tragedy of the Christmas story. Or rather, bittersweet, he supposed, altering his initial thought. A baby born to die, even if he was, if you believed it, a savior for the world.

Blood for brightness. Death for life. Grief for hope.

Things do not change without sacrifice, and here in the sparkling snow, Enjolras wonders if it’s easier to face death when you are man and divine all at once?

A sharp pang of pain pricked his chest, stopping him in his tracks. The pain ran straight through toward his soul, and for a moment, a deep breath would not come.

The cold air, he told himself as the sharpness ebbed and adjusted his scarf, pulling it up over the collar of his coat. He should not breath in the cold air so directly.

At long last, he finally approached Combeferre’s, stomping the snow off at the front mat before ascending to the second floor. He knocked. Something crashed to the floor, a voice that was decidedly Combeferre’s exclaiming a muffled curse word, followed by a softer, bemused _oh, that’s were that went,_ before footsteps came closer.

“Oh hello,” Combeferre said as the door came open. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I’m not bothering you am I?” Enjolras asked. “I was out walking.”

Combeferre shook his head. “You’re not ever a bother, Enjolras.”

“The holly is new.” Enjolras pointed up to the doorframe after he stepped inside.

“I felt like being a bit festive.” Combeferre gestured at Enjolras to take off his overcoat. “The origin is pagan, you know.” He furrowed his brows while Enjolras did as requested. “Where are your gloves?”

“I gave them to a gamin I saw.”

Combeferre smiled. “And your hat?”

“I admit to forgetting it.”

“Enjolras.”

Enjolras let Combeferre lead him to the sofa by the fire, keeping to himself the fact that sometimes Combeferre forgets what time it is when he is swept up by something.

“Quite a snow tonight.” Combeferre sat down, taking Enjolras’ hands wordlessly into his own, rubbing up and down to warm them, his glasses slipping down his nose. “You were out walking?”

Enjolras nodded. “I passed Notre Dame and heard people singing a hymn in Mass. It made me remember you and Jehan debating the star of Bethlehem the other day.”

“Ah yes.” Combeferre released Enjolras’ hands, going over to his small kitchen and retrieving two glasses and a carafe of something. “I did enjoy that.” He places the two glasses down, red liquid splashing against the scratched crystal, stream curling up in the air. “I know you rarely drink, but this is warm. Mulled wine.”

Enjolras acquiesced, and the wine did warm him, a touch of spiced fruit on the tip of his tongue. “Where were you tonight?”

“At the children’s hospital, until perhaps two hours ago,” Combeferre told him. “They sent some of us from Necker to help with an influx of feverish children. Though some of them seemed on the mend—they were telling stories about Père Fouettard, and whether any of them had seen him on Saint Nicholas Day.” His face darkened, and he removed his glasses, wiping them on his shirt.

“Combeferre?” Enjolras questioned. “Are you all right?”

“It’s nothing.”

“It isn’t.”

Combeferre sighed. “Some of the doctors, they were saying they’d heard word that there were cases of Cholera in Britain and wondered how long it would be before it came here. I only hope it doesn’t.”

“I do too.” Enjolras pressed Combeferre’s hand. “I know you’ve said you do not feel we are prepared for it.”

Combeferre shook his head a second time, glancing out at the night pressing against the window, snowdrops glistening on the glass. Warmth bloomed to life within the walls, despite the bleakness of midwinter. That was, maybe, the appeal of holidays and festivals placed at this time of year—the ability to sit by the fire with those one loved, safe inside as you gazed upon the beauty of the snow and the ice and the cold from a distance, watching it glitter beneath the stars. The stars that reminded you that there is always light. Despite winter’s eerie chill, Enjolras had always felt an affinity for it, and that was why—those constellations caught in the dark, always rising. Always in the same place, changing with the seasons. You could see stars in summer, of course, but they always shone brighter in December.

It did, of course, draw to mind those who do not have that safety. That fire. That warmth. That love.

“Let’s not talk of it just now,” Combeferre said. “After tonight, the sun will shine a little brighter, and we’ve Christmas to think of.” He arched one eyebrow. “Do you suppose Feuilly would help us make a creche? Seems odd not to have one.”

Enjolras laughed, the earlier pain in his chest only a memory, the melancholy thoughts washing away. “You know? I think he would.”

Combeferre laughed too, and Enjolras stretched out across the sofa, resting his head on Combeferre’s legs while his friend muttered something about forgetting a hat in a snowstorm, brushing the remaining flakes from Enjolras’ hair. The fire crackled in the hearth, and Enjolras forgot that he was even cold earlier, listening in deep, cozy contentment as Combeferre talked of a book he’d just finished reading.

Drowsiness overcame him soon enough, and Combeferre’s words melted away, though Enjolras tried to hang onto them, eventually losing the battle as his eyes fell heavily shut.

He dropped into dreams.

Night. Heat. Shouts.

Dark. Dark. Dark.

And then, gold gleaming over the horizon.

A bloody sunrise.

He jolted up, making Combeferre jump, too.

“Easy there,” Combeferre said, concern lacing his words. “You fell asleep. Are you all right?”

“Just a dream,” Enjolras replied, unable, really, to make sense of the strange images. “I’m all right.”

“Well, you’re staying here with me tonight.” Combeferre’s words made clear he would brook no argument. “Joly would have my head if I let you walk home in the snow. But before we sleep, my landlady brought me some sort of…Christmas cake, of some kind. I haven’t tried it yet. Courfeyrac has more of the affinity for sweets, I know, but I can’t eat it alone.”

Enjolras brushed off the strange dream and the earlier pang in his chest and the strange, sad thoughts of the evening, and turned to the truest thing he knew in the world.

His closest friend.

Even on this, the darkest day of the year as he longed for the light, Combeferre’s smile soothed his soul.

“Yes,” he said, grasping Combeferre’s shoulder with a slight tremble in his voice. “Let’s have some cake.”

Outside, the stars shone and the snow fell and the clock struck midnight, ending the solstice.

Tomorrow, Enjolras told himself, there would be a little more light.

He turned to Combeferre, who already had a knife to cut the rather lumpy looking cake.

“Merry Christmas, Combeferre,” he said, not bothering to hide the emotion in his voice, though he didn’t speak to the source.

Combeferre’s eyes lit up in the pleased sort of way Enjolras knew well, as if all the things inside him had the power to spur the sunrise.

“Merry Christmas, Enjolras.”


End file.
